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( Tinkerer - Fixer )
In the end, Charlize Theron signed the agency contract with the talent scout John Crosby and officially became one of his artists.
However, she chose to cover half of the acting school tuition herself, thereby cutting the termination penalty in half as well.
If she could, she would have preferred paying the full amount—but relying on her mother's support and whatever she earned from odd jobs, she was already struggling to cover basic living costs and rent. Scraping out half the tuition was already her limit.
John also advised her to invest in some presentable outfits. That meant another expense she had to manage on her own. So she didn't dare imagine what her life would look like if she had tried paying the full tuition.
What did help her avoid disaster was the fact she wasn't an American citizen. It was nearly impossible for her to apply for a credit card or get a bank loan. She simply could not live on debt or future money even if she wanted to.
If she needed to borrow money, her pride wouldn't allow it—and Henry's warnings also played a role. Favors were hard enough to repay, but financial debt could easily become a shackle, a legal chain around her neck.
Naturally, Henry did not offer to help financially.
John Crosby's money burned holes. Henry Brown's money wouldn't bite? In Charlize's eyes, they were the same.
She understood the boundaries far too well to even consider crossing that line.
Henry assumed that would be the end of it. A girl with such a strong sense of boundaries shouldn't be the type who called every other day for free lunches disguised as "let's hang out."
But on the very next day, Charlize Theron called again.
"Hello? Henry? It's Charlize Theron."
"Good day, Ms. Theron."
"Oh, Henry—call me Charlize. 'Ms. Theron' makes us sound like strangers."
"Alright, Charlize. You just signed with Mr. Crosby—didn't he give you tasks to handle? He seemed to have plenty of plans for you yesterday."
On the phone, Charlize said, "That's why I'm calling. I'm still living in a motel. John wants me to find a proper place to stay within the next two days.
"Even if I can't move in right away, I need at least a semi-permanent address. He gave me some suggestions, but I wanted to ask you if you know any trustworthy rental agencies."
"I see. Write down this number."
"Okay—wait a sec."
On the other end came frantic rustling as she hunted for pen and paper. "Alright, go ahead."
Henry dictated a number. "The agent's name is Fabio Romano. I found my place through him.
"Just tell him you were referred by Giovanni from the photo shop and Henry from old Gary's place—he'll know who you mean. I think the listings he handles are beginner-friendly for people new to Hollywood. You can set up a viewing with him yourself."
"Oh, thank you, Henry. This really helps."
"Do you need me to come with you when you look at places?"
Henry was mostly being polite; he meant nothing more.
Charlize's reply came quickly. "Do I need you to? What sort of person is Mr. Romano?"
"A passionate Italian guy. Very talkative."
"Ah, that type I know well. I spent a whole year running around Europe with an Italian modeling agency. I'm basically immune to Italian enthusiasm by now."
"Haha, then I'm sure you can handle him. If he gets out of line, tell me. I've always wanted to kick his butt—been waiting for an excuse."
"Um… so I have to get harassed first before you help?"
"You can tell him exactly what I just said. And if he starts spouting nonsense, flip him the bird for me. I'd be very grateful."
"Okay, I get the idea." Charlize sighed helplessly through the phone.
"Alright. If you're searching today, you'll be busy enough. I won't keep you. See you next time."
"Thanks, Henry."
"No need for thanks. Just helping each other out."
After hanging up, Henry whistled, oddly cheerful.
Right then, Katie pounced from behind—
"ROAR!"
(Translation: Breakfast!)
"Damn it, Katie, you're a tiger—no, no, right, you're a tabby cat. Anyone watching you throw a tantrum after waiting three minutes would think you're a pig."
"Roooar~"
(Translation: You forgot me because of a woman.)
"Excuse me?! Who taught you a sentence that complicated? Name your accomplice. I'm making them your lunch today."
He grabbed the paw attempting to ruin his hair, then pinched the tiger by the scruff and tossed her onto the steel cat tower.
Katie twisted mid-air like an oversized housecat and landed softly, then immediately jumped down again, determined to harass him until breakfast was served.
Henry reluctantly pulled out the fresh beef delivered that morning and dropped the whole slab into her feeder.
Tigers don't care for aged or dry-aged nonsense. Given a choice between cooked and raw, she'd pick raw; between chilled and warmed, she'd pick warm; and the very best was freshly killed with the blood still warm.
Henry no longer bothered trying to comment on her dining preferences.
As long as she didn't stare longingly at the two-legged animals walking outside the window, drooling, he didn't mind the extra work.
Raising a pet was like serving royalty; Henry regretted it sometimes. If not for the idea of eventually harvesting a naturally deceased tiger whip, he'd never have bothered.
While Katie was eating, she suddenly felt a chill run down her spine and looked nervously at the overly gentle smile on Henry's face.
Oh dear. Tiger spine and bone marrow were valuable too. Henry stepped forward to pet her head, his expression "loving."
Poor Katie had no idea what to do when a Kryptonian set his eyes on her. No tiger had ever taught her this.
After playing with Katie for a bit, Henry suddenly heard a distinctive high-frequency sound. The black clinic's alert bell.
Great. Someone had been shot again at this hour.
Grumbling about whichever unlucky black gang member or Mexican had gotten themselves ventilated, Henry went to change into his "Fixer" outfit.
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